


break

by trashemdudes



Series: pressure points [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Abuse, Denial, Extremely Underage, Isolation, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Rape, No actual sex, Self-Hatred, Victim Blaming, assumed daddy kink, just a lotta noncon sexual fantasies, mentions of abuse, warning might be pretty heavy to wade through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11684748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashemdudes/pseuds/trashemdudes
Summary: Damian returns to his mother.





	break

When Damian reaches the base of the League of Assassins in the mountains, he isn’t greeted by anyone, and he knows what it means. He’s home, to the place where his mother is always playing games, testing him.

He’s not forgiven yet for choosing Grayson; Damian’s being told that he needs to earn it. Damian drops his bag on the ground where he stands and strides inside, the doors unlocked for him, blinking away the sudden change in light. He strolls down the hallways with its intricately carved pillars and the wooden beams crisscrossing above him in the shadows. It doesn’t take him long to find the closest follower, and when they pause, when they then attack him, Damian strikes them to the ground without a second thought. When he’s done, he tells them, “My bag is out in the front. I expect you to personally bring it to my room.”

The assassin nods in between their gasping breaths of pain, coughing out blood.

Then Damian steps over them, ensuring not to get blood on his boots, and walks away down the familiar stone halls to his mother’s office where he knows she will be waiting for him.

 

“My son,” Talia says when Damian enters the room. She stands up from her desk and holds her arms out to embrace him. Damian wipes the blood off his cheek, remembering that she dislikes getting her daily clothes dirty. Then he walks over too quickly and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her stomach.

She’s warm. And soft. She smells nice as always.

Then Damian pulls away, but Talia keeps him there with a hand on his back, stroking his cheek with the other.

She’s smiling, the slight crinkle at the edge of her eyes the only sign of her age as she says, “I’m glad you decided to return home. I’ve missed you.”

Damian pauses at that and tilts his head back slightly as he grasps her hand stroking his cheek, squeezing it firmly. He looks up at her, holding her eyes steady. “Mother, Wilson’s actions —”

“I love you, Damian,” she says, cutting him off, as she slides her hand out of Damian’s grip to push his hair back. She smiles fondly down at him, tilting his head back a little with the movement of her hand. “What I had Deathstroke do, I realize it seemed extreme, and I, myself, did not know he’d go so far, but nonetheless, Damian, you’re home now.” She kisses him just below his widow’s peak.“...and I have to admit I was a bit envious. You seem to care about the circus boy so much. I regret letting you remain so far from me for so long.”

Damian’s quiet. “You know I would do anything for you Mother. That has never changed.”

“I’m glad, Damian,” she murmurs, before letting her hand on his cheek fall. “With your Father gone... we only have each other now. I don’t want to lose you too.”

“You never will, Mother,” Damian replies too easily, arms stiff at his side. His fingers twitch and he’s uncertain at how it will be received when he chooses to reach and tangle his fingers into the side of her dress.

She smiles, bright and warm at that, Damian’s relief mixing with anticipating dread of any possible future backlash, before adding, “I know you must be concerned with your spinal implants. The surgery to have them removed will be tomorrow night. It will be Dr. Norum. You remember him from when you were younger?”

Damian nods, unable to help toying with the soft velvet of her dress. She’s here, at the least. She wanted him to return home, enough to orchestrate an entire scheme for Damian to return home to her.

“And Grayson’s nanites?” Damian asks, quiet.

Talia smiles even if her eyes narrow with displeasure. “Ah well, that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Richard no longer has any relevance in our affairs, so it won’t be used again. Moreover...” She breathes sharply. “it is good to that he’s shown his true colors with this event. He’s always been disrespectful to you, treating you with such obvious, false affection. He was only using you to indulge his repressed obsession with your father. Someone like him, who’s dirty, doesn’t deserve you, Damian.”

Damian stiffens, but he hasn’t known Mother to be wrong or to break her promises. There is a strict code in the League, and Mother adheres to them with honor. And Grayson...Grayson... had been too good to be true. When even Father had rejected him, it was strange that his most devout follower would suddenly have a change of heart. Unreasonable. Foolish.

Damian can’t bring himself to doubt Mother and so he grins, baring his teeth at her.

She snorts, tapping him on the cheek, before offering to show him to his new room, the new accommodations made for him in celebration of him having aged a year older.

 

The room is large with a balcony, and the sunlight is filtering in. The walls are stark white, and the floor is a dark red-brown wood that borders on black in the shadows. The door to the bathroom and closets are both shoji sliding doors with dark wood lining the washi. All the edges are neat and sharp. It’s fitting, Damian decides, for the atmosphere in the base, and the color choices are tasteful.

It’s elegant, but contains the hint of a threat in its design.

The glass on the wood-framed balcony doors are bulletproof and tinted, the balcony is slightly sloped down, and the walls are thick metal under the drywall and paint.

There's a large bathroom beside the bedroom and living room, and in the living room are bookcases that span the walls filled with Damian's favorites, classic books in politics and philosophy in a multitude of languages — all in their original language. Talia had never been a fan of needing translators or allowing any dependence on anyone.

"It's lovely, Mother."

"I'm glad you like it." She offers him a gentle smile, an eyebrow quirked, before saying, "We will be having dinner together tonight. One of the servants will bring you to where we'll eat."

"With Grandfather?"

"No. Just the two of us. Something, simple. Private." She puts an emphasis on the last two words.

"I see," Damian says, staring up at her familiar face. "What is expected of my attire?"

"I would like you to look your best. And do something with your hair. It's unruly." She says it teasingly even if she means it.

"Yes, Mother." Damian smiles softly back.

She smiles at him again before turning and walking out. She pauses at the door, back straight and long hair cascading down her back. "Shrike will be guarding us tonight while we enjoy our dinner. Please treat him with the proper respect his position is due."

"Yes, Mother," Damian replies again, rote this time.

It means Mother is likely keeping Wilson and him apart and adding Shrike just to try to press Damian’s buttons.

Shrike may be another test, but it’s merely an annoyance to Damian. Whatever his relationship to Grayson in the past was... Damian has little to no relationship to the man anymore. As for Wilson, Damian wants to deal with the man’s impudence. He had thought the man had a measure of intelligence, enough not to underestimate Damian, but he supposed not.

Damian is anticipating handling the man later.

She leaves the door open when she leaves, and Damian pauses, standing in the middle of the spacious and neat room, the thought of closing the door flickering across his mind for a moment, but he doesn’t. He knows it would make little difference besides show weakness in him. There are cameras and microphones everywhere, recording every detail of his life to be reviewed as it always has been. Mother had kept track of his progress that way to ensure that he did not slack. He assumes it’ll resume as usual.

Damian walks slowly across the room and undresses as he does, letting his clothes fall to the floor while he goes towards the large bathroom and its porcelain tub, large enough for him to swim in.

He opens the faucet and warm water rushes out, and he sinks in without hesitation, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the edge of the tub.

Then he opens his eyes and says, “Bring me my towel and prepare clothing appropriate for my dinner tonight." His voice echoes slightly with the tile floor and mirror.

There's no response, and Damian doesn't expect one.

He soaks in the bath for a while, letting his breathing slow. He knew it was inevitable, but he waits until he can no longer ignore it before he indulges in the arousal curling at the pit of his stomach, the arousal that had remained with the memory of his hands all over Grayson.

The sight of shadows playing across the man’s golden skin with each ripple of his muscles in response to Damian’s touch.

Grayson’s pants and broken whines. Damian swallows at the memory before he traces a finger over his thigh and lets his hand slide in further to the delicate olive skin of his inner thigh. He rubs the skin there, remembering how soft Grayson’s had been. He can suddenly smell the scent of Grayson’s arousal too well and flushes before he grasps himself and begins stroking.

Damian gasps, the sound echoing in the bathroom.

“Ha..nngh.”

Grayson.

It’s too easy to imagine his hand is something tighter and hotter. Damian hadn’t realized what sex was truly like. He could understand to some extent now the obsession with it. There’s the image of Grayson... accommodating for Damian inside him. Damian groans loudly, squeezing himself.  It’s been a near constant arousal the past week. Damian moves his hand faster. And the high, begging moan Grayson had been unable to bite back when he had arched his back and finally spilled into his hand. Damian bites down on his lip, letting his eyes flutter shut as he comes into the water, panting as he waits for the aftershocks to dissipate.

His body jerks involuntarily at another spurt, and Damian tenses, arching his back slightly before sinking back into the water.

In another moment, he slides out, still slightly dazed, the curl of arousal still not diminished. It’s only receded enough for Damian to focus and relax the slightest.

There’s a towel and clothing, including underwear lying beside the tub. His dirty clothes are gone.

They're always watching Damian knows.

Once, Damian recalls, there had been a deviant monitoring him, but instead of Mother intervening, she had merely told Damian to deal with him himself. It had been four years ago, when he was seven years old.

Damian had understood little of why he was being told to coyly attract that servant's attention, run his small, still chubby fingers across the man’s thigh and smile sweetly, and then kill him, but he had known that it was because he had transgressed; he had treated Damian with disrespect.  Damian had castrated him, gouged out his eyes, torn out his nails, and sliced parts off him little by little until he had died of blood loss and pain. Then he had surreptitiously glanced at Mother to look for the approval on her face.

She’d been so proud, and Damian had been so pleased.

Damian rubs the towel down his slim legs and over his torso before running it through his hair and casting it on the ground again.

At home, in Gotham, Pennyworth had always made sarcastic comments at Damian for dropping objects on the ground and then simply expecting them to be replaced and picked up.

Damian had only reluctantly began organizing his own items at Pennyworth’s sarcastic remarks of Damian being incapable of even cleaning his own room in combination with his threat of snooping.

It’d occurred to Damian then that he wasn’t under surveillance at all times, and he’d taken to cleaning his room with a zeal that had surprised both Grayson and Pennyworth.

Now, Damian knows he won’t have to clean his room for himself again. Neither Grayson nor Pennyworth will make their snide comments or underestimate him anymore.

He should be relieved he no longer has to return to them.

So he is.

This is, after all, Damian Al Ghul’s proper place in the world.

 

It takes a week for Grayson to come for Damian.

Damian has readjusted easily by then. It is his true home, the one he had always intended on returning to to claim his birthright.

During the week, he trains with assassins in the League’s halls, correcting their mistakes even as he watches his own recordings to find sloppy movements or hesitations. He improves his flexibility and the accuracy of his anticipations. Mother watches and criticizes more days than not. Grandfather appears once, disinterest blatant.

He only comments on how Damian had ‘finally left that paltry impersonation’s side’.

Damian is out on a mission by himself, collecting information on an operative from Moscow operating in Rhode Island: their intentions, the moral character of the operative herself, her skillset and abilities for the League’s records.

He finishes it, deeming her unworthy of the League’s time, and turns his attention to Grayon who he sees coming from far away, accustomed to his methods. He waits for Grayson on the rooftop.

Grayson lands in front of him in his Batsuit without preamble, and the older man’s voice seems to burst out of him, loud and angry, “You—”

The wind whistles, harsh and cold, whipping traces of snow at them. It sends even Grayson’s too heavy cape billowing as the silence stretches on between them. Damian’s waiting for Grayson to finish his sentence, to condemn him or forgive him, but nothing comes.

Grayson just stands there, and he looks lost, a small figure in the blizzard. He’s slimmer and shorter than Father, and while his presence isn’t easily forgotten, it doesn’t carry the pressure that Father’s does. Did. Nonetheless, it’s Grayson.

“Damian. I’m sorry.”

Grayson pauses after that to clear his throat, and his voice is a little hoarse when he says, “I thought I’d know what to say. I—I......I had a scan, and I know there’s some sort of nanites in me — they’re gone now, Cyborg helped me — and I reviewed the cameras. I know you didn’t want to do it.” His voice is weak, and Damian has to strain to hear him over the howling echo of wind. But Damian doesn’t go any closer.

“I’m sorry, Damian. I — shit.”

Grayson comes closer to Damian, and when he’s close enough to touch, close enough that Damian’s chest is thrumming, the wind and cold drowned out by the flush of his face and the noisy sound of his heart, Damian can see the exhaustion in Grayson’s face.

“I’m sorry that that happened. I should’ve, I — ”

“Noted,” Damian says and doesn’t offer anything more.

Grayson still searches for something more, and he unconsciously leans in a little. Damian can almost feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his sweat and musk. It’d drawn him in before. The dirty places, sweaty and the scent too strong, making Damian think of running his tongue over it to taste him. Make Grayson feel obscene for all the intimate places he’s being pleasured by.

Damian thinks of how he’s had that body. He’s had him, naked and underneath him, eyes glassy and spineless with pleasure.

“Robin...” Grayson growls low, but soft, and it sounds empty, especially after hearing his high, sobbing moans, possibly even to him because he switches to his normal voice. “Damian. Come back to Gotham.”

“You didn’t—,” Damian says, unable to bite back the angry words when they burst out of his mouth, leaving a bad aftertaste.

“I didn’t what?” Grayson asks after a moment.

Damian looks away and swallows, clenching his fists, somehow hearing the stretch and rub of his leather gloves even over the wind’s howling. “Your unfinished sentence. The one I interrupted. What you should have done. You did not do.”

“I—”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Damian yells desperately, looking forward again wildly just as they both stumble at a stronger gust of wind.

Grayson looks dumbfounded, agitated, shoving his cape out of the way as he regains his balance before even Damian. “No one’s saying it’s your—”

“I should be able to take what I want,” Damian says, rote, with agitation. “I am an Al Ghul, _Heir to the Demon_ , born of the greatest warriors and tacticians known, gruelingly trained by the most skilled assassins. I have a glorious _destiny_ . I do what’s necessary to _fulfill_ it.”

“Damian,” Grayson says, frowning the faintest as he looks at Damian like he’d said something strange. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And you didn’t want it.”

Damian’s whole body jerks at that as he looks at Grayson. “There was nothing wrong done at all.”

Grayson presses his lips into a thin line as he looks Damian over. His voice is gentle when he speaks. “Damian...” He breathes in. “Damian, please. Come back to Gotham so we can talk about it. Patrol hasn’t been the same without you.” Grayson offers a faltering, _pathetic_ smile that makes something in Damian snap.

“NO.”

Damian says it with too much force, and he doesn’t realize how loud it is until after.

The wind dies down at that moment, and Grayson stands there, stockstill, a small figure among all the buildings that are starting to disappear under the snow cover. The white powder softens the edges of the city, and creates a false serenity over it. Enough to make something beautiful out of something ugly.

Among it all is Grayson.

“My mother was right, Grayson,” Damian says loudly over the wind rising yet again. “You made me weak. You made me vulnerable. You _corrupted_ me.”

Grayson stares at him, and he’s probably wide-eyed under the cowl. He takes a step closer.

“What’re you talking about?”

Damian can hear the hint of anger in his voice.

“Working as Robin made me soft. I had no weaknesses before, and now, you’ve ruined me, Grayson.” Damian laughs.                                                             

“Damian? I—  Robin made you _weak_ ? No, you wanted it. It made you happy and free for once because you were _wanted_ for _you_.” Grayson shouts, stepping forward again with force, but even then he doesn’t present a threat. “I wanted- want _you_ as my Robin.” He looks like a broken, desperate man, cape whipping in the wind, and he’s the perfect example for it, for how being weak and trusting allows this to happen. He cared about Damian, and Damian’s actions can cause him to lose sight of his purpose. He’d be too easy to manipulate now, caught up in his emotions.

Mother would crush him.

Damian could too.

He can’t help the superiority in him that rises over the curl of nausea in his stomach and the cotton in his mouth.

“And even if it did help you let your walls comes down? What’s wrong with letting yourself be weak sometimes, Damian? What’s wrong with letting your guard down with people you trust?” Grayson demands.

How can he _possibly_ be so blind.

“Are you _stupid_ ?” Damian sneers, certainty rising with each word. “Or did you actually enjoy being taken advantage of? It happened because you trusted me. That is what happens to people who are weak. Like Drake. He was far too emotional over Father’s death, enough to turn into a lunatic spouting mad theories, and the result was you made the obvious decision and chose me over him. When you allow weakness, you _fail_ . As all the Robins before me did, each one fired or offed because they were weak. I have _no_ desire for that _pathetic_ title and the history of _inadequacy_ that follows it.”

“Damian!” Grayson yells, enraged.

Damian smiles.

“You—... I—” He’s breathing heavily now, obviously caught in emotions yet again. He swallows, tucking his expressions away before he visibly froze. “You said I...enjoy being taken advantage of?”

“...”

“You just said that nothing wrong had been done.”

“Nothing did,” Damian replies, amused and feeling distant like he’s watching all this happen. The words come out on his own. “The weak are meant to be taken advantage of. That is only the right of people like me, Grayson.”

“...Damian,” Grayson’s voice is a like a leaf caught in a storm, fluttering away. Damian can read his lips, see the faint tremble in them. His voice, if it had sounded cracked before, completely and utterly breaks then. “ _You didn’t do that to me_.”

Damian can feel his heart beating in his chest, feel the heat sliding like needles through his veins. His arms, his legs, they ache, and Damian doesn’t know what for as he begins to shake where he stands.

He naturally broadens his stance, pushes back his shoulders, and tenses himself. A mixture of feelings he doesn't understand bubble up inside him. The answer is simple. Should be simple.

“I—” Damian gasps. “am nothing like you, Grayson.” He steadies his voice. “I don’t have a need to be loved as you do. I do not — kindness is a tool people use when they are too incompetent to do something themselves and must convince someone else to help them. It’s trickery,” Damian sneers, “and if by chance someone is so naive to believe in it, then undeniably they deserve everything that happens to them. Their stupidity deserves such a punishment in turn, for not becoming more adept when they’ve been giving every opportunity to improve. Just look at everything you’ve achieved, Grayson, and tell me, _tell me_ that Gotham or Bludhaven is any less of a scum-filled, rotting pit of irredeemable, dirty, selfish caricatures who ought to be eradicated.”

“They aren’t! They aren’t,” Grayson yells. “They— You— you know that isn’t true. You know that none of this bullshit you’re spouting about weakness, saying having faith or being willing to give people a chance makes you naive or— or inferior isn’t true.”

“Then what is?” Damian jeers, “You can’t even save yourself, Grayson. Who are you going to help with those beliefs holding you back? How many times have you _failed_ the people you promised to protect? Even Father, you let die.”

The snappy, angered responses are cut short then.

Grayson freezes.

Damian can see: he stops breathing. The words seem to echo around them, the wind scattering snow around them, enough to muffle the rest of the world.

“Damian,” Grayson says, looking like he’s about to crumble away into a million pieces, “Come back.”

“Don’t touch me, Grayson. You disgust me,” Damian replies, shoving Grayson away with too much force, too much emotion in his words for his own comfort. He’s trembling the slightest, something crawling under his skin.

He takes that moment to leap away, keeping his distance from the opponent.

When he’s a good enough distance away, Damian calls, almost lazily, “Or is this a proposition? Is this your offer to spread your legs for me again? Mother has her lovers. I’ll have mine too, I suppose.”

“I didn’t— I,” Grayson’s voice is rough, and he’s lunging forward until he can grab Damian’s shoulders, saying, hoarsely, “I didn’t spread my legs for you, Damian. They forced you and me.”

“And you wanted it!”

“I didn’t—,” Grayson is yelling now, squeezing down on Damian.

“You wanted it. You wanted it,” Damian yells, spittle flying in Grayson’s face. And his eyes are burning inexplicably now, breath ragged, uncontrolled, and Grayson’s frozen, holding onto Damian hard enough to bruise him.

It was just sex. It’s just Grayson. Nothing of importance.

“No, Damian, no, you don’t get to,” Grayson starts; he licks his lips, fingers digging into Damian’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise, “say those....”

Damian stares at Grayson wide eyed for a moment.

“Let go, Grayson. I told you not to come near me unless you’re willing to submit to me.”

Grayson pulls his hands off Damian too fast and watches him like he’s never seen him before, whispering a hollow, “Why?”

“You made me weak, Grayson. I could not remain there.” Damian doesn’t know how to get it through his thick skull, doesn’t know how he could possibly put into words to make Grayson understand that he’s rejected him and everything the man stands for. “My mother offered me the _entire world_ , one where even my Grandfather will have no pull me over me. I want it. Only when I’m standing there with the world in the palm of my hand, will I finally be satisfied.”

Grayson swallows thickly, arms hanging limply at his sides. He looks as though he’s lost something at Damian’s words, and then, he's angry, and Damian is well capable of handling anger.

He’d only never been able to handle Grayson’s laughing, wry, and trusting responses to Damian’s words.

Damian stares at Grayson, ignoring his words, not hearing a single harshly, hurriedly, fearfully uttered word and then laughs at him. He shoves at Grayson and spits in his face before saying, "It's no wonder my father didn't bother fucking you."

It’s always Father.

Grayson is pale with anger, wordless and seething, and Damian imprints that expression in his mind. A small part of him even enjoys it, finally capable of inciting that furious anger in Grayson that he had never been able to before, not with only himself.

Damian likes it. Prefers it.

“I’m not a failure like you,” Damian finishes with, eyes absorbing that face for a moment before he hooks his foot around Grayson’s ankle and slams the man to the ground, drawing his sword from his back and holding it high above his head before slamming it down beside Grayson’s head. It sinks into the cement, slicing through a few strands of Grayson’s hair.

Damian locks eyes with him, blue against blue.

Grayson’s weak. Damian wants him to know it; he’s alive only because _Damian_ desires it.

Because Grayson is....

Grayson is.

Damian then turns and leaves.

 

Damian retires to bed that night, Grayson's furious expression on his mind. Even better, the thrum of victory along with it. He had rejected _Grayson_ who’d come chasing after _him_ . Sparks fly up his spine, adding to the low level of arousal he’s been feeling ever since the moment he’d entered and spilled _inside_ of Grayson. The hunger he’s been unable to appease.

Grayson would look good like that, _seething_ , tied down to a chair, wrists to the armrests, ankles to the legs. He could take his time with Grayson.

Tease him until he was begging.

Damian would leave him there, blindfolded, keeping his touches light, just enough that Grayson was aroused, hard, and fuming. Then leave him. The moment his arousal flagged, Damian would return him to that same state of limbo.

Let his fingers trail everywhere except where Grayson desired it most.

Until his need overcame his pride, and he begged.

Damian would have him understand that the only person, thought, feeling he was allowed to receive pleasure from was Damian, and only when Damian chose to give it.

Grayson would come when Damian whispered it — an order to be obeyed — into his ear, his body shuddering at the sensation and his moans broken at the intensity.

“You belong to me,” Damian whispers in his ear.

Grayson shudders in response, body jerking in pleasure as it should in response to Damian’s voice. He comes, and Damian watches him unravel for him.

Damian shudders, gasping, mouth slack at the image, but groans in irritation a moment later.

It’s still not nearly enough.

He needs more to push himself over the edge, and Damian flips between multiple fantasies.

Grayson begging for forgiveness.

Grayson fully nude and jerking himself off desperately, shame-faced while calling out Damian’s name reverently.

Grayson on his knees, face pressed against the ground, drooling against a gag and his hips raised in the air for Damian like a dog.

Grayson blindfolded, a toy shoved down his throat for him to suck, muffling his moans, arms tied behind his back, forearm to forearm, and legs twisting in the sheets at the vibrator kept inside him with a harness around his hips.

Grayson’s smile and the heat of his hand on his shoulder.

Damian comes hard at the final thought, gasping and curling his toes.

 

When Damian enters the dining hall, his mother is sitting at the other end, Damian’s plate placed to her left, unlike his usual place to her right. Damian carefully folds away any emotions, including frustration at the fact that she continues to test him even after more than a week. He wonders what she would do if he did fail, but Damian has no intention of finding out anyhow.

Damian greets Talia first with a kiss on the cheek and then takes his place, setting down a wrapped object by his seat, without any show of displeasure or surprise and glances at Shrike who’s standing by the wall behind Damian.

Still here. The man really had no life.

He slides his chair in, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap.

He looks down as he does so, and it’s a fact he notices even more so with Mother; his feet don’t touch the ground. It makes his skin crawl as he tenses but bears with it, recalling how even with Pennyworth’s reign over the manor, more often than not, he’d eat sitting on kitchen counters and rooftops with Grayson where it didn’t matter.

Damian smoothes out the napkin twice.

“Have the food brought in, Shrike,” Talia says, her voice rich and smooth.

Shrike nods and moves across the floor to the kitchen door and only leans in to request it, then he returns to his positions, standing stiff, but obviously bored and irritated.

The servants enter carrying the food on silver platters, and Damian begins saying, “I brought you your gift, mother.”

He releases his hold on the napkin to offer it to her stoically, wondering again what she had felt when she had heard her Beloved was dead. If perhaps she had listened to anything Drake believed. Damian can’t imagine his mother desperate. Al Ghul's don’t show weakness.

She pauses and smiles, taking it. “Damian...you never to remember fail each year.”

It’s been their custom, since Damian could paint, for Damian to gift her with a portrait each year, usually on her birthday. It’s not her birthday today, but it had felt appropriate to present it to her today.

She’s pleased, and then they tuck into their dinner, sunflower seed soup for starters.

Talia questions him about his opinion on the potential of new members of the League, ones that had earned their acceptance by being able to land a hit on their examiner. The more showy ones preferred to attempt to kill their examiners.

The most recent recruits had been acceptable, ripe with raw power, but they had lacked any fluidity or grace. The kind that the most proficient assassins held. Three had passed among the ten. Damian had no doubt the three would all eventually be killed either by their targets or by another member of the League.

Mother agrees with him even as she asks, “And I assume you’ve heard of our negotiations with Queen Bee?”

Damian nods, licking the last of the soup from his spoon. “You’re using her to deal with the government in North Korea and to test Luthor’s safeguards against psionics.”

Talia nods even as she waved at Shrike for the next course.

“Luthor can be reasoned with so long as Superman is not involved, but nonetheless, his arrogance and ambition are still concerning.”

The tea leaf salad was served as Damian replies, “He has a concerning lack of rationality in regards to Superman.”

“Yes, well,” Talia smiles, even as she lifts her fork to her mouth, red lips curved, “we all have our weaknesses. It is only a question of whether you’ll let them be used against you.”

Damian nods in agreement, the conversation switching to assignments for the assassins.

When the main comes, Damian stares down at the meat, pausing in his retort to physical enhancement drugs. He hadn’t thought to mention it to Mother. The last and only time they had had dinner together after Damian had returned, there had only been egg for protein.

His mother turns to him, raising an eyebrow, “Is there something wrong with the quail, Damian?”

Damian stares at the remnants of the little bird on his plate before shaking his head and reaching for his fork to peel off the tender meat. It’s juices flow into his mouth, nearly melting on his tongue when he bites in and forces himself to swallow.

Damian tells himself he enjoys it. And he does.

 

Damian spends several more weeks working missions for Mother, training with the assassins, though he notices there is agitation among them. Grandfather is noticeably absent, a squad with him, and Damian recognizes that it’s most likely him that’s causing the unrest. He is planning something, but Damian forgets it all in a split second when he hears the whispers.

The moment he’s terrorizes the information out of a member of the League, Damian’s boots are slamming down on the stone floor until he reaches the meeting room door and kicks it down. He strides in. Mother and Wilson, standing by the conference table, turn to glance at him.

Mother frowns disapprovingly even as she gather her tablet and stylus in hand.

“Excuse me, Deathstroke. It seems my son’s forgotten his manners.”

Wilson only bares his teeth in a grin. “No worries, Talia. Actually...I’ve been meaning to have a little tête-à-tête with your kid here.”

Talia raises an eyebrow at him before shaking her head and pushing her seat in. “I suppose it was only to be expected. I expect you both to behave cordially.” She gives Damian a final look before she leaves, the door slamming shut.

“Hmm...” Wilson says slowly, hands free at his sides. “You’re still mad, aren’t you? About Grayson.”

Damian doesn’t respond, just clenches his fists.

“It was a job, kid,” Wilson snorts. He leans against the wall, but his one eye tracks Damian carefully. “I do what I have to do to get it done. And don’t tell me you didn’t like it. For a fucking toddler, you have one stiff hard-on for Grayson.”

“I don’t, Cyclops.” Damian replies, words low and controlled.

Wilson snorts, shrugging his shoulders loosely. “You do. Because that’s how you are. You like hurting people, and Grayson is the kind of masochist that’d gladly get hurt for _family_. Me? I just do it for money, but you smile when you kill, the little bloody demon in the League. Grayson would run from you if he’d seen it.”

Shut up.

Wilson’s smirking, his tone a drawl. “He thinks you’re sweet and misguided when you’d tie him down and fuck him until he fainted if you could.”

Shut up.

When Damian’s finished with everything he has planned for Wilson, he will take his time with him. He will torture him. Use his healing ability to its utmost. He’ll start with his eye. Then he’ll sink a dagger into his eardrums, take away his balance. He'll-

“Treating you like you’re some little kid to be protected... that’s fucking funny. You’re just lucky he has a soft enough heart to care about you the way you are now.”

“Don’t you dare speak of Grayson. You know nothing.” The words shoot out, harsh and sharp. He has to work not to shake, has to calm the bloodlust in his chest, calling out for Wilson’s terrified screams. He only requires to wound Wilson once and then everything can begin. Outside of that, Damian reminds himself, he won’t go any further. To do so would say that he needs to prove himself and he doesn’t.

Wilson raises his eyebrows, “Kid. I’ve been fighting him before you were born. Before your mom even got it into her pretty little head to fuck daddy bats.”

“Then it’s pathetic that your observation skills have earned you nothing,” Damian sneers.

Wilson jerks his head, smirking, “Me? I’ve noticed enough. You want to possess Grayson, and you have no understanding of what that desire even means, kiddo.”

“You mean desire.” Damian’s lip curls. “I think you underestimate me, Wilson. Do you think because of my youth, I’m blind? Grayson is...exquisite. I’ll admit I was blinded by the fact, ignoring that he was weak. But lust is just that.”

“Weak?” Wilson leans forward incredulously, a twitch in his lips. He sounds genuinely surprised, if not amused. “Grayson’s an idiot, but he isn’t weak. He knows loyalty, and he’s tenacious. The one who’s weak here is you. Running away to mommy the second you’re scared big brother doesn’t like you anymore.”

There’s a dull ache in Damian’s arm, and Wilson is suddenly a lot closer. Damian realizes he had used the table as a stepping stone, slamming his fist into Wilson’s blindspot without thinking. The wall shakes, cracks spreading. He can feel the blood thundering through his veins.

Damian says, low, high on adrenaline, “You may have made me realize that I am better off without him, but let me make this clear, Wilson. I will kill you once your contract with the League is finished. But before, unless you would like to change your name to Polyphemus, I suggest you learn to bite back you inanities.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Wilson folds his arms. “That it’s not because you’re scared he hates you? That it’s because you think nothing of him? Lemme tell you kid, wow, Talia really fucked you up.”

Damian snarled. “And how have your children been, Wilson? Ah. I’d forgotten. You wouldn’t know because even your children can’t stand you. Perhaps it’s your taste that scared them off. You do know it’s not Halloween, don’t you?.”

Wilson lashes out with his sword, the metal blade glinting where Damian’s midsection had been.

Damian laughs from across the room. “No wonder you’re so obsessed with money. You have nothing else. You’d do any demeaning job for money, wouldn’t you?”

“Working for money is demeaning? Says the kid who’s never earned a fucking thing in his life,” Wilson shoots back, tone cold even as he advances.

“I’ve earned everything I have,” Damian snarls, circling the room as Wilson matches his pace.

“What do you have, huh, kiddo? You don’t have a single thing.”

“I have my mother, my abilities, my destiny. Better than a pathetic scrounger as you.”

Wilson laughs. “Your mother? She watched you rape Grayson with no emotion on her face. She doesn’t care about you. She wants to use you. The only one who might not want to use you is Grayson, but you’ve burned that bridge, haven’t you?”

Damian places a hand on the back of chair, squeezing down as he forgets words. They’ve never been of any use to him. He pushes himself up, flying through the air as he runs down the length of the table, blade held at his side.

Their swords clash, Wilson leaping back as Damian rushes forward, ducking down low to slice at his legs. Wilson leaps up, bringing his sword up and down, aiming for Damian’s spine. It’s obviously a move meant to taunt him.

Damian sinks down lower, holding his sword up over his head, Wilson pressing down, heavier and stronger. Damian lets his sword slide against Wilson’s and arc around to slice along the man’s bicep. It isn’t particularly deep, but it’s first blood, and it’s more than enough. At that same moment, Wilson brings his knee up, slamming it into Damian’s chest.

Damian lets the blow force him back as he regains his balance, and—

Talia walks into the room, slamming the door open.

“I expected better from the both of you.”

Her eyes drag over the two of them, both panting. They don’t take their eyes off of each other.

“Deathstroke, leave.”

Wilson straightens up after a moment, cracking his neck lazily, but he doesn’t put his sword away. “Calm down, Talia. Just a friendly match.”

“I don’t take well to being lied to, Slade,” she replies coldly. She moves to the wall beside the door, waiting.

“Alright, alright. I have to go stakeout my target anyway.” Wilson walks forward, and Damian tracks him with his eyes before Wilson stops right beside Damian.

Wilson pauses to say, low and quiet, inaudible to Talia, “By the way, I heard Ra’s little pet Detective’s been making some progress. Maybe your daddy isn’t dead after all.”

Damian stiffens, and he can’t help the way he leans in, waiting for more.

Wilson grins at that, baring his teeth even as he slinks away. “You’re still a child after all, Damian. Looks like your mother didn’t crush that out of you yet.”

He sheaths his sword and laughs as he walks out, rubbing his already healing wound.

The moment he’s out of hearing range, Talia calls out sharply, “Damian.”

Damian turns slowly, lazily, chin held up. “Mother.”

“Put your sword away.”

Damian does after a long pause.

She looks him in the eyes, reading his expression as her lips press into a thin line. “Deathstroke is still of use to us. I don’t care for whatever petty quarrel over a circus boy you have with him.”

Damian nods sharply in response, already drifting.

He licks his bloodied lips, tasting the iron and salt driving his heartbeat, drowning out her voice. Wilson’s wound had already been healing. It meant the nanites that Damian had placed on his sword’s blade will have no chance of being wiped away.

 

“Grandfather.” Damian enters the room and and closes the door silently behind him.

“Damian.” Ra’s glances down at Damian out of the corner of his eye even as he continues surveying the assassins in the training grounds. They’re in his study, oak book cases lining the wall, the room covered in rich, woolen tapestries and rugs.

He always watches them train when he is at the mountain base. Usually in the afternoon when the sun is at its highest.

It's only now that Damian's discovered what he's been planning after weeks of research.

Damian walks up to Ra’s back, keeping a distance of a few feet.

“Your plans for Gotham.” The haughty expectancy in his tone is easy to draw up as always. It borders on a demand.

Ra’s doesn’t reveal anything in his body language as he slowly turns to Damian, his lined face impassive. “Are you planning on interfering?”

“Why did you not involve me in it?”

“Why would I have?” The man only replies with lazy disinterest.

“I understand Gotham better than anyone else you could possibly have assisting you. Moreover, it was my father’s city.” And whatever feelings Father may have had for it, Damian knew that it was just part of what would he his in the future. It is his, and Ra’s who is involved in so many other schemes that he'd even bother with small city like Gotham is blatant interference.

Ra’s stares cooly back at Damian before he presses his lips into a thin line. “Sentimentality will do no one any good.”

“It is not sentimentality, Grandfather. It is an understanding of my territory.”

Ra’s tilts his head, a faint smile on his thin lips. “And you consider...Gotham your territory?”

“I do,” Damian replies stoutly.

“Then why on earth is it still filled with rotten scum whose lives should have been ended years ago, Damian?” Ra’s leans in, sneering. “Tell me, it isn’t sentimentality that you didn’t end pathetic creatures like the Joker or Harvey Dent. The city is running rampant with vermin. Listening to Batman’s rules... it’s obvious that you’ve grown soft. No....” Ra’s eyes him. “You were always soft, and nothing I did was capable of crushing that out of you.” He straightens his back and holds his head high with a cool glance at him and then away at the assassins again.

Damian swallows, trying not to tremble. His breath quickens, heart thudding out of his chest. It's...it's difficult to hear over the blooding pounding through his ears. The soft tone of contempt is a familiar one, one that’s led to the things Damian...Damian had needed to experience to grow. Over and over, Damian forced into things he feared to become stronger. He is stronger now. He can fight Grandfather. His abilities are nearly on par with man, and he has youth. He shouldn’t be so afraid then.

He shouldn’t be afraid.

It isn’t fear at all, Damian reminds himself, it’s anger that has him trembling, never fear.

“My plans concerning Gotham will not involve you.”

“Even when you’re using _Drake—_ ” Damian clamps his mouth shut too late as he stares up at Ra’s with wide eyes. He has to work not to shake, does it by clenching his jaw and fists, tensing his body and then relaxing, and it takes a moment before he fully regains his composure, but he already knows it’s too late. Ra’s will have spotted it by then. The weakness in Damian. When Damian dares to meet Ra’s eyes again, the man’s expression is only one of resigned disdain when he looks at Damian. He doesn’t even bother to hide it.

When Damian breathes in, eyes-wide, he tries and fails to feel _worthy_. He turns tail and leaves the room as quickly as possible.

 

Grayson returns, breaks into the League of Assassins’ base like it’s a sane decision that anyone would make. And Damian’s almost unreasonably pleased by it, the thought that Grayson would return for him. It's an emotion matched with the anger at the hope it draws out. It isn’t an ambivalent thought that he’s amused that even the League can be so pathetic as to allow an intruder to enter their midst without injury. Grandfather should have trained them better.

Damian’s alerted to Grayson’s presence before he opens his eyes even as he keeps his breathing steady. There’s the sound of Grayson moving around the room.

When he does opens his eyes, it’s to Grayson crouched over his bed.

His first words are a wry quip. “What? No pets? I was honestly expecting a zoo.”

“I have a League of Assassins. They are adequate pets,” is Damian’s short response.

Grayson nods with a quirk to his lips, and Damian can see him scanning the room still as he says, “A bit plain. Could use a Batman plush or two. Maybe some actual personality in it too.”

“I find it more than acceptable as it is,” Damian replies coldly. His eyes flicker over Grayson’s face while he’s distracted. Which Batman does he mean?

When Grayson turns back to Damian, he loosens his fist and he’s holding bugs in his hand out to Damian as if Damian hadn’t known they were there.

“You could’ve helped me take them out,” Grayson says. He’s not wearing the Batman suit this time. He’s wearing something else — what he’d worn before he took Father’s name: Nightwing. He doesn’t consider himself Batman. So then he meant Father.

Damian ignored the turmoil of emotions inside that cropped up at the thought of if Grayson didn’t like being Batman then what did it mean for Damian who had been his Robin.

“You had it handled,” Damian drawls, sitting up slightly to lean back on his arms, letting his elbows lock. The last time he had been on the same bed as Grayson... he can’t help the way his eyes trail down to Grayson’s spread thighs, to the faint bulge in his suit. It’s easier to think of that, think of the proof he was given that he could have Grayson if only physically.

“Damian,” Grayson says harshly when he sees where Damian is looking.

Damian only lazily draws his head back up to narrow his eyes at Grayson. “Why are you here, Grayson?”

“Do you want to stay here, Damian?”

“Yes.” Damian doesn’t hesitate, still drawing some pleasure from the shock Grayson can’t hide. He won’t settle for being a replacement.

“Why?”

“I explained it to you before. Gotham was not the right environment for me to achieve the goals I desire.”

“What goals Damian?” Grayson asks almost harshly. The backlight of the moon, harshens his sharp features and makes the man seem ethereal. He’s striking.

Damian has spent hours with a pencil and paper, paints and a canvas, following in the footsteps of his betters in capturing beauty, but Grayson’s existence easily outstrips any of his efforts. He thinks he’d like to capture the line of his face, the faint frown on his full lips, and the furrow of his brow. He really would enjoy that.

Damian kicks at Grayson ankle without preamble, unbalancing him and then grabs his collar flipping them so that Grayson is underneath him, Damian kneeling above him, knees bracketing his hips. “Wouldn’t you like to know? You who has no ambition besides trailing—”

“Stop bringing Bruce into this. This is between you and me.” He’s looking straight up at Damian, body relaxed. He’s too trusting. Damian’s heart skips a beat.

“Father’s involved, isn’t he? You follow his ideals the same way. You say you trust me, but because Father believes it, you believe I’m another irredeemable killer,” Damian sneers, leering at Grayson.

“Bruce has nothing to do with this. I tru—”

“You would’ve trusted me then,” Damian hisses, eyes burning. In a matter of seconds with only a few words, Damian’s losing all composure, all sense of reason as to why he shouldn’t show Grayson everything he’s caused. Everything he’s at fault for for doing to Damian. “You wouldn’t have turned your back on me. I stayed for a week, _waiting_. An entire week.” His voice breaks, turning too quiet as he tries to control his tone, blinking quickly. Damian had barely spoken to Grayson or Pennyworth the entire week, a ghost in the mansion, just waiting like a docile pet for a glance or a smile from Grayson to acknowledge his existence and yet there had been nothing. Erased from Grayson’s life so easily.

Grayson had ignored him for an entire week.

Damian can't possibly convey the humiliation he had gone through hour after hour of waiting in that dusty mansion.

"I just wanted," Damian begins to whisper, "you to..." He catches himself in time.

Damian manages to add a sneer in his next words, the resentment coming easily. “Do you recall your behavior? You’re the same as Father, as the rest of them, just waiting for me to break one of your sanctimonious rules.”

“Damian, I woke up drugged and you—” Grayson takes a shaky breath in, “Damian I needed time. I can’t work off of faith alone. I was still reeling from it for that week, enough that I couldn’t think straight enough to look into it, and it doesn’t matter whether you chose to or not. I was hurt—”

“You’re blaming me—”

“No. Sometimes things happen that aren’t anyone’s fault, and people still get hurt. What I mean is that there doesn’t need to be blame for there to be hurt. I didn’t know what was going on at the time, just that you freaked me out and I was hurt. Enough that I didn't act how I would've if I was clear-headed. I wasn’t— I wasn’t blaming you Damian. You’re a victim here too—”

Grayson’s voice drowns out, and it dawns on Damian that Grayson may have been blaming himself.

“Did you like it?” Damian asks, low, yanking him foward. Grayson doesn’t resist.

“Wha— no, Damian—”

“Did you want it to be Father?”

“No—”

“Then why did you blame yourself?” Damian asks, a hint of mocking and incredulity at the thought in his tone. “Don’t tell me it was because you really believed you taught me to force myself on people or encouraged it? Or that perhaps you seduced me? Tried to groom me to want you?”

Grayson’s pale in the moonlight, and he’s even slimmer than before, Damian’s certain he hasn’t been eating or sleeping. He just wants to know why. For who. If it’s him or if its because he no longer has a distraction to keep the thoughts of Father’s death away. If he no longer has a replacement to fool himself.

“I...I came...Damian.” Grayson whispers it with defeat in his voice. “That’s pretty fucking damning in and of itself. I— I....didn’t stop you. You’re _eleven_. I’m the adult; I’m the one who’s supposed to make sure that you don’t do these kinds of things. I thought I must’ve...”

“You couldn’t,” Damian says, staring at Grayson’s pale face and the sheen of sweat on his skin. “Stop me.”

That he’s thinking those thoughts...Grayson is inefficient, too soft for all his intelligence, experience and skill. And the last two words linger on his lips. He’s too much like his mother; he’s been trained too well to enjoy power over others. Grayson leans in and Damian thinks about his breathing hitched.

Damian recalls the feeling of being inside Grayson, and there are some days here his mind is so utterly distracted by the thought, the memory of the tight heat clenching around him. He wants it too badly, craves the heat of fucking Grayson as much as he wants and the high of climaxing until Damian collapses with satisfaction. He wants to hold Grayson so close to him that his skin seems to burn from the heat, feel each sweet, gasping breath Grayson takes press against his own chest. Damian wants to press his face into Grayson’s chest and be surrounded by him, breathing in his scent, Grayson's arms holding him tight to hurt, and dig his nails into Grayson’s skin until he’s marked irrevocably.

So that Grayson knows.

He isn’t allowed to ignore Damian.

“I should’ve,” Grayson continues quietly in the silence. He looks away from Damian, and the fact shouldn’t send Damian’s mind into turmoil as it does.

He sees it now.

It hits Damian, taking the breath from his lungs in a painful impact; even if he’d understood it before, now he feels it: Grayson is here for Damian partially because he genuinely cares, but partially because he can’t stand the guilt that he engaged in such an act with Damian, the child, his little brother. Grayson wants to get rid of the guilt, wants to forget that it ever happened and continue playing the happy siblings because that is what he believes everything should be. Father’s existence plays a factor, but Grayson is caught up in ideals.

“Da—”

Damian’s phones rings by his bedside, and it’s still the ringtone Grayson had set it too, grinning smugly as he’d sat beside Damian on his bed in Wayne manor. He’d insisted that Damian keep Bob Marley as his ringtone.

His phone sings: “Cause every little thing’s gonna be alright...”

Still hovering about Grayson, Damian picks up the phone, typing in the code and swiping the lock to glance cooly at the text. It’s from an unknown number, but Damian knows it’s from Wilson. Damian doesn’t even bother watching the phone and Grayson at the same time. He doubts the man will do anything.

He reads it.

_Turns out Daddy is lost in time. Wonder what Grayson will do._

Damian’s blood turns cold. His entire body stills, and his throat and chest constrict. This is what he should have expected. He’s had enough already, and if... if Grayson’s here to appease Father, if he’s here trying to make himself look good for Father when he returns by bringing back his foolish, demented son, then...

“Leave,” Damian says, his voice trembling.

Grayson’s eyes are wide, and Damian can see the conflict in his eyes as he reaches out to touch Damian’s cheek. It’s light and gentle as his fingers trail down the curve of Damian’s cheek, and the sorrow is clear on his mesmerizing features.

Usually he’s free with his touches, but the entire time, he’s been careful to avoid any physical contact with Damian.

Damian smacks Grayson’s hand away. He says quietly, “I don’t need you. I don’t need you and your naive ideals. I like killing, Grayson, and I liked raping you.”

It’s enough to make Grayson stiffen, but he doesn’t leave yet. He doesn’t try to touch Damian again. He only says, “I watched the videos, Damian. And I really don’t think you did. You’re not like them. You’re something good.”

Damian snarls. “I am good, Grayson. I don’t need your reassurances. My morals are the corre—”

“Why do have to think that being vulnerable is bad?” Grayson says. “It’s the only way you can get closer to people. It’s the most exhilarating part of being alive, Damian. When you’re vulnerable, and someone...someone accepts you no matter what.”

Damian narrows his eyes, and then he leans in close, one hand grabbing Grayson’s suit to pull him up. They hold stares for a moment before Damian tilts his head back consideringly and then lunges forward too quickly for Grayson to react as Damian bends down to sink his teeth into the side of Grayson’s neck. He manages to draw blood before Grayson knocks him away, hand covering his bleeding neck.

Damian goes willingly, having no desire to tear a chunk of flesh off the man.

Damian only leans back, tilted his head as he stretches his jaw impassively, eyes on Grayson.

It will scar, and Damian likes the thought of his leaving his own permanent mark on him. 

Grayson shakes his head, expression filled with confusion and outrage as he wipes his mouth, saying, “I— Fuck. Damian. I’m— I’m not some pet for you to— to mark. Using force isn’t right in this situation. Even if you’re angry. Forcing people... the point of anything is that it’s mutual. Because you both care. And I care about you.” His eyes are wary though. He’s watching Damian with a careful intensity, his hand still over his throat.

Grayson says that as the man who beats up criminals to get them to do what he wants as a hobby.

Damian licks his lips and doesn’t reply.

Grayson looks up and says, “I... I have to get back to Gotham now, but think about it, Damian. Gotham’s your home. Alfred misses you.” He pushes himself up and moves to the balcony, turning back with a wry smile. He holds Damian's eyes for a long moment as if trying to communicate something. Then he leaps onto the railing and then off, arms spread wide as if to embrace the sky. Damian only wonders how deeply Grayson can feel the sting on the wound and what kind of scar it will leave.

Damian watches the place on the balcony where Grayson was for a moment longer before he runs his fingers across his lips. He can still feel the ghost of heat across his lips, the smooth skin. His mouth tastes like iron. Damian licks his lips.

Grayson is too naive. Damian only grants that it’s to his extraordinary abilities that he’s managed to survive so long with that naivete.

No, not weak, Damian corrects and admits his wording had been wrong. He’ll give that to Wilson.

Just a fool.

 

Talia has made sure to make more time for Damian recently. She eats meals with him, spars with him, goes on walks with him, converses with him on different topics, though more than conversation, it feels like an interrogation either of motives or knowledge when he speaks with her.

It doesn’t change the comfort it brings him to interact with her.

However, Damian is unsure of whether it as something to do with Grandfather’s plans regarding Gotham or whether Talia herself is planning something. He knows she’s been stirring unrest in radical political groups in South America along with her activity with Queen Bee and Luthor, but he’s uncertain of what else she has kept hidden.

Nonetheless, Damian has noted that she has been more open in their conversations now. As if she sees him as an equal now.  It includes her relationship with Grandfather, her own mother, her plans for Damian, the person he must become, and...Batman as well.

Talia broaches the topic of Father more often now.

It’s Father, and... Damian still craves to better understand him. He allows the desire because he knows it will be useful one day when he will have to fight against Batman for everything he’s worked for. For when one day, he and Batman are facing each other.

If Drake, for all his incompetency, somehow manages to bring him back.

“Should I tell you about your father?” Talia says today, over dinner, her voice gentle and rich. “It seems as though he’ll return soon. Your grandfather seems to be convinced from what he’s discovered while working Timothy.”

She drops the comment of Father’s non-death while watching Damian’s reaction with amusement.

Damian narrows his eyes. “I am aware. If you would like to Mother. If speaking of Father would please you.”

“I want to tell you of why I chose him.” Talia pauses, sipping her wine. “I’d told you before we’d met when your Father was still journeying across the lands to become stronger. Your grandfather liked him for his intelligence and ruthless practicality...” Talia muses, “but that wasn’t what had drawn me to him. Bruce was...is a man who will go to great lengths to achieve what he wants, and he has to have a clear understanding of people to be able to do so. He does...he is compassionate...to a fault. What drew me towards him was not only that, but his ability to use that compassion. He’s capable of seeing not only others but himself as well as nothing but tools, well enough to take them apart and see how they function. And with that, he understands how to utterly obliterate him opponents. It is truly pity you never saw him before he was so inhibited.” She smiles fondly at the memory.

"He is ruthless because he is kind. I've always enjoyed the paradox of people, and that is epitomized to it's utmost in your father. His intelligence and capabilities and morality are that of the ideal man, the kind of man that all should strive to be like."

Then Talia puts her silverware down to look at Damian, expression serious.

“Your father is the only one who’s ever been worthy. You have to understand, Damian, no one else can compare to him. That is,” she smiles, “until now. When you are older, you must be able to utterly destroy him.”

Damian continues with his food, cutting at the steak and lowering his eyes as he places it in his mouth. He chews and swallows when Talia speaks again.

“Do you remember,  my son, that you had requested the removal of assassins and nanites from Richard?”

“Yes,” Damian replies.

“I assume, after your first meeting, you know he had had Victor Stone remove them for him himself...the assassins were placed elsewhere after a month. And after your second, I realized...” Talia begins, smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder. She hadn’t brought it up before now, but Damian knew she had known. “I realized. You are still young. I do not mean to deny the fact of your power or intelligence due to your youth, but I recognized that while you may understand what it is you want, you don’t quite yet understand the proper way to achieve it.”

“What do you mean, Mother?” Damian asks, wary.

She hands him the tablet that had been lying on the table and reaches over to tangle her left hand with his right. He allows it as he uses his left to accept it and open it to see a dark room with a nude figure lying on his side, sleeping. The scabbed teeth marks on his neck are clearly visible. It’s...

It’s Grayson.

“What is..the meaning of this, Mother?”

Talia strokes his shoulder, “Beloved, it is what you wanted. I believe it was a mistake to separate you and him now. If both your Father and you see something in him, then surely, he has something of value to offer. Circus trash, certainly, but I told you I would give you the world. And he is a part of it, part of everything that is and will be yours.”

Damian doesn’t dare to say a word, controls his breathing carefully, trying to understand what he’s feeling.

“Do you like it?” She’s watching him.

Damian presses his lips together, aware his mother can’t see his face from her angle, and replies, “...yes...I do. Very much.”

The sight of Grayson stirs up something in Damian’s body. Damian is nearly dizzy with the emotion. This is...Grayson is a fool. A pathetic, pitiful, beautiful fool. He had likely not even made it out of the compound before Mother had gotten her hands on him. Grayson had been naive enough to believe he could come into the League and leave unscathed. Damian had been fooled by Grayson’s faith and naivete as well.

Damian turns toward Talia. “Thank you, Mother.”

Her red lips curves as she places a hand on his shoulder. “Consider it a thank you, for all the paintings you’ve given me over the years.” She let her fingertips trail his shoulder before completely breaking contact.

“Enjoy yourself, my son.”

“I will.”

 

Grayson is there, simply there, and Damian is...admittedly uncertain for once.

Knowing the fact that this is an event backed by his mother, and also therefore the League, it’s certain: Grayson is Damian’s.

Grayson is already in their grasp, and unless someone is particularly incompetent, then there is no chance Grayson will ever be able to escape. As this is Damian’s home now, so will it also be Grayson’s until the day he dies.

Damian meticulously reviews the cameras at randomized intervals, ensuring that the space between each is never more than an hour. Mother may have other plans beside what she had told Damian, but so far, she seems to have been telling the entire truth.

It’s a pleasing thought that Grayson is there at Damian’s disposal. If Grayson is there...then...he won’t be touched. He won’t be harmed by some fool in Gotham and won’t risk his life to protect some weak, pathetic person who’s unworthy of him.

Damian watches him every night before falling asleep, listening to his deep breathing through his headphones, fingers flicking over the tablet’s screen to more examine each part of Grayson. Most times, he lingers on Grayson’s hands or his thighs or ankles, recalling how Grayson would on occasion ruffle Damian’s hair, how that night, Damian had marked his hands on Grayson’s lithe thighs and hips, trapped him, pulling the vulnerable man towards him solely by his slim ankle, Grayson’s attempts to escape weak and endearing. His breathy moans.

He lingers now on the curve of Grayson’s ass, recalling how his cheeks had looked spread and the way his hole looked stretched around his cock, the heady way it had looked when Damian had pulled all the way out, panting, a thin line of precrum connecting Grayson’s swollen hole to the tip of Damian’s cock just before he slammed back in, watching the way his hole spread wider with each moment until it had accommodated the thickest part of Damian.

The way he’d tensed so pleasingly when Damian had pressed against his prostate.

Mother had captured Grayson the night he had come to visit, so Grayson had been in captivity for over two weeks. Mother had given him the data and tapes from those two weeks where Grayson had been kept tied up and blindfolded. He'd been held in a containment room for five hours before he’d been knocked out and untied and had his blindfold removed. Scare tactics, Damian knows. Then Grayson had been free to roam in his cell of six feet by six by six. Not even enough room for the man to stretch out his body and limbs at once. It included a toilet and had been kept completely dark for the next five days.

He’d been fed by compartments that could only be opened by one side at a time. Three meals a days of bland food, but only if Grayson did not act out or insult any of the Al Ghuls.

During the time Grayson had demanded to speak with Talia or Ra’s and then only at the end of the five days did he ask for Damian, his tone reluctant and remorseful.

Damian is uncertain about whether the emotions were because he didn’t want to ask for help from a child and let Damian know exactly how helpless he was or because he couldn’t imagine that Damian would have ever allowed something like that to happen to him if he was aware of it.

In between, processing the implications, Damian jerks off and imagines it spilling over Grayson’s face, the white liquid splattering over his open mouth and swollen, spit slick lips as he gazes up reverently at Damian. It helps him fall asleep.

After the fifth day, because Grayson had behaved, the lights were turned on, but for random intervals, keeping the man’s internal clock off. Grayson only continued to pace the small box, keeping up his training so that he didn’t lose muscle mass. That had been the content of the rest of the videos, with a few scenes of Grayson acting out in anger, where he’d been punished with no food or darkness.

Damian leans back in his chair as the recordings ended. And then he switches back to the currently recording cameras to find Grayson looking consistently more anxious. It must be breaking the man down, Damian muses, to have no human contact for sixteen days. Grayson must feel claustrophobic by now. He skims through the videos again before turning his tablet off and going to sleep, safe in his certainty.

 

Damian dreams about forcing Grayson into position and fucking him over and over, sweating and panting, making him come countless times until he’s limp and compliant in Damian’s arms. Grayson’s heat pressed back against him, the man depending on Damian for support to sit up, eyes half-lidded. Grayson’s soft, satisfied sighs, his face pressed loosely into Damian’s neck.

Grayson nuzzles against Damian’s neck, and the feeling is suffocating.

Damian wakes up in a cold sweat, his underwear soaked, and the ghost feeling of Grayson’s nose and cheekbone digging into his neck.

 

Damian calls Batwoman and Azrael. He informs them in Grayson’s voice that Batman and Robin will be out of commission for an undetermined period of time and he expects them pick up the slack. Then he calls the Commissioner, lowers his voice and growls in Grayson’s version of the Batman voice that Gordon will have to work on his own for a while.

Pennyworth...most likely already knew a vague version of the circumstances. That Damian and Grayson had an argument. Damian doesn’t need to contact him, and it’s through him or her father that Oracle will be able to draw the necessary conclusions. He’d implied just enough to Kane and Valley for Gordon to come to the conclusion that Damian had gotten upset over Father’s death and had fought with Grayson, leading to Grayson chasing after Damian. It’s close enough to the truth to be reliable. It will hold until Father fully returns from being lost in time, and by then, Damian will be able to decide.

He’s not certain what’s holding him back though.

 

Grayson paces in his cell.

 

Grayson sleeps.

 

Grayson eats the food mechanically, spooning the food to his mouth.

 

Grayson exercises, doing push ups while holding a handstand, squats, sit ups.

 

Grayson lies on the small bed provided for him and doesn’t move. He isn’t sleeping, Damian knows from the monitors, but he is still for an uncomfortably long time.

 

Grayson paces.

 

Grayson ducks his head and... works at himself efficiently, his own touch almost a replacement for a lack of human interaction or contact, and when he comes, the only sounds he makes is a pained grunt.

 

Damian furiously jerks himself off three times that night, Grayson’s pained sound echoing in his ears. He chafes himself when he runs out of lube.

 

Grayson literally bounces off the walls, using the small cell to its utmost. He works off a sweat that makes his skin glisten appealingly. He almost smiles when he does this.

 

Damian tries to copy the fluidity of his movements while on the practice field. He doesn’t succeed.

 

Grayson sleeps.

 

Grayson paces.

 

Grayson doesn’t eat.

 

Grayson looks into the camera and says, quiet, tired, “Please let me out.”

Damian feels faint disgust that such an expression mars Grayson’s features.

 

Grayson sleeps, and Damian likes him there, safe and contained in his grasp, away from Father and Gotham. Damian hears his words again. _Damian_ , _come back._ There’s the pull of Gotham’s haze and the rush of the night air against his cheeks, the pound of cement under his boots, and then the ground so far far below him as he soars. Like a dream. For all that it had once been real.

 

Grayson. Grayson. Grayson. All of Damian's thoughts are consumed by him, day or night.

He's distracted, and it's a heady distraction. 

Damian habitually checks in on the man, measures his heart rate, weight, blood pressure, anything else Damian can possibly think of. He falls asleep with his headphones of, listening to the unfaltering sound of Grayson's heartbeat. It's the only sound that can lull him to sleep anymore.

 

Mother asks him how Grayson has been.

Damian hasn’t been to visit, has only watched him on camera, and there is no doubt Mother knows it. Damian says that Grayson has been fine. Amusing. He subtly switches the topic, but he knows she recognizes the segue.

She moves on to Damian's readings on political warfare anyway. He's...grateful.

During a lull in the conversation, his eyes flickers from his food to her face when she isn’t looking at him, eyes dragging over her features.

And then he asks on a spur of the moment, putting his spoon down. “Mother, did you let Wilson act as he did while you were present there and not stop him?”

Talia turns and stares at him almost coldly before she replies, “May I know why you ask?”

“To understand.”

“Yes,” She says after a pause, “I did. I wanted you back.” Her eyes don’t leave his. It’s Damian who looks away first.

Damian looks down at his food as he says, evenly, “I see. Thank you for answering me, Mother.”

His mother hums, and Damian can’t decide.

 

Damian has them knock Grayson out and then tie him back up, gag and blindfold him, and then he enters the cell, standing just past the border.

He stays there for a moment until Grayson begins to struggle again, making verbal noises, obviously knowing that someone’s there, and Damian pauses himself, forces himself to stop. He unties Grayson’s gag.

“Damian,” Grayson says, even still blindfolded, lips chafed and red from the gag, arms and legs bound, lying at Damian’s feet. It’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

"Damian, I want to protect you."

Damian freezes, his heart sinking in his chest. Then he forces himself to unfreeze, knowing that like everything else in his life, he is doing a performance for someone else.  The cameras are on, and the League is watching. Damian can feel cold hands pressing into his shoulders, trying to push him to his knees as impassive eyes watch. And yet... he no longer cares. Because he has something, someone who can leave him content.

And even worse.

Damian regrets this, regrets hurting Grayson, and that’s not a necessary emotion at all.

Damian knows as he sits back, removing his hands from Grayson that if he stays with him, he's going to fail. He's going to become nothing. Absolutely no one, forgotten and lost in history like he knows his mother fears so greatly.

Because Damian first thought to his failure isn't angry denial. It's Grayson in the morning in a T-shirt and sweat pants, bedhed sticking up everywhere, the man yawning and scratching his stomach in the most unappealing way possible. 

He thinks about Grayson too often.

Grayson who didn't trust Damian at first, but offered him a chance anyway. Grayson who smiled in the cape. Grayson whose soft, breathy laughs makes Damian's head dizzy. Grayson who has warm callused hands and who's touch meant safety and security in a way that Damian had learned overtime. A pat on the head means pride in him, means affection. A squeeze to the shoulder means comfort and understanding. A hug means protectiveness and love.

Grayson is by no means perfect, but he’s as close as a person can possibly be.

And it's easy. It's so easy to want to Grayson.

Damian's internal clock tells him the cameras and microphones should be obscured now. He looks down at Grayson.

“I think about fucking you,” Damian replies. “All of the time.”

Grayson pales.

“I even think about hurting you sometimes,” Damian adds. “I know what normal children think about. Normal eleven year olds have barely just skimmed their understanding of intercourse and relationships, but I am not like them. I never will be.” Damian’s voice cracks at the end, and he’s not certain of whether it’s an act to have Grayson let down his guard or not.

It works either way.

“It’s— that’s,” Grayson says, voice hoarse. “We can deal with that. And it’s fine. You don’t have to be like other eleven year-olds, Damian.”

Damian breathes in shakily, loud enough for Grayson to hear.

“I don’t believe you, Grayson.”

“Yeah, well,” Grayson laughs weakly. “Give it time. Give me some time to pull you over to the dark side. We have overly concentrated caffeinated beverages and reckless idiocy that keeps us going.”

“Tt...my willpower is enough to keep me awake.”

“Yeah? Well—”

“I don't care about that, Grayson. Stop being so childish." Damian’s voice trembles. "What I care about, what I want is to protect you. I _don’t want_ your protection. Do you understand that?”

“Damian.” Grayson sounds so relieved, his body relaxing the slightest. He laughs softly, sounding unbelievably genuine now. “Is that it? If that’s all... “ Dick grins, a sigh of relief passing his lips. “You’re good, Damian. You are. And you’re not weak. You’re exactly what you should be.”

Damian is exactly what he should be.

He makes his decision right then as those words reverberate in the depths of his mind, the turmoil in his chest settled. He only reaches out now to touch Grayson’s cheek, fingertips skimming his skin, light enough for Grayson to even question its presence. Grayson arches into the touch, obviously starved for it, but it only emphasizes when he pulls back like he's burned a moment later. Damian pulls back.

“How are Titus and Batcow?”

“Good,” Grayson replies and there’s almost fondness in his voice.

Damian nods even if Grayson can’t see it. He gazes at Grayson’s face for another moment before standing up and saying, “I will have Mother release you.”

“Damia—”

“Grandfather is using Drake to plan an attack on Gotham. And don’t let Mother capture you again, idiot. The microphones will be turned on in the next moment. Keep your silence.” Damian turns and makes the sound of boots on stone with his mouth. There’s the steady sound of boots on stone before the slam of a door, and Damian watches as Grayson relaxes.

Grayson is skilled at control over himself, his body especially, but his body still reveals truths because he's trusts Damian. And the most naive, simplest one is apparent. Grayson is smiling very faintly.

Then Damian slides the needle hidden in his sleeve out and raises it above Grayson’s neck. He stabs it down efficiently, Grayson not reacting before it’s half in, and by then, he’s already falling unconscious.

 

Damian leaves Grayson and finds Mother training. She’s graceful, flying through the air with an air of regality, but she’s not nearly as fluid as Grayson. She doesn’t belong there, high in the air, as he does. He thinks that she perhaps belongs better grounded on the stone their mountain base is made of. She is solid strength with a resolve that drives her.

She turns at Damian’s entrance into the training room, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat off herself.

“Come with me, Mother.”

She raises her eyebrows, an amused expression on her face. “Where to, my son?”

Damian doesn’t respond, only walks forward and down the hall. His mother follows, towel cast aside.

They arrive in the observation room above where Grayson is held, now unconscious.

“Do you have an announcement?” Talia asks. “If you would like, I can have him trained to your specifications.”

Damian blinks, and then says, “Set him free, Mother.”

She looks so disappointed in him, and like always, it’s another test. Nonetheless, she beckons to a follower and says, “Release him. We have no use for him anymore.”

Damian watches her even as he knows she's ignoring him now in irritation with his weakness. When the follower is gone, Damian turns to her, wills her to listen as he stares her down until she returns his stare. “Grayson is only a distraction at the moment. When I decide I will have him, I believe it is only appropriate that I be the one who captures him.”

Talia’s expression slowly turns from impassive to pleased, and she unfolds her arms to place one around Damian's shoulder, rubbing his arm.”Of course, Beloved.” She presses her lips to the top of his head. Damian doesn’t respond.

Instead he watches through the assassins’ body cameras as Grayson’s unconscious body is carried away to be placed in a secure location a few miles away before he's untied.

They dress him with rough, efficient hands into a T-shirt and jeans.

Damian takes the moment to say to Mother even as he keeps his eyes on Grayson, “I’m going to do this, Mother. I swear I will succeed. I will be better than anyone else, and I’ll never lose again.”

Not even to Father.

He turns to her when he sees a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Damian nearly flinches when Talia is impassive for a long moment before placing a hand on his head and patting his head. She’s never done that before. It was a gesture he’d learned from Grayson. When Damian looks up, Talia is smiling brighter than Damian has ever seen her do before. “Of course, my son,” she says softly, lovingly. “I have never had any doubt in you.”

Damian’s heart raises in his chest, flushing before he manages to pull himself away and return to Grayson’s figure, ignoring the heat in his cheeks.

Grayson falls with a ungraceful slump and eventually Mother bores and leaves for other business, telling him they'll have dinner together.

Damian stands there until Grayson awakens, confused and groggy, but tensing immediately to survey his surroundings. Grayson doesn’t have anything on him but his clothes, but Damian’s confident he’ll be able to return to Gotham without any trouble. When Grayson sees nothing that poses an immediate danger, he still doesn't relax, just surveys the cave again and then looks back for a lingering moment before he walks out as quickly as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this is weird, but I can never tell if someone would like a reply to their comment or not. So if you do comment, and want a response, put an @ at the beginning!


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